


Blanket Fort

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Series: Johnlock Prompts/Oneshots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, HLV fix-it, M/M, midHLV, standalone stories inspired by prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 14:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13882449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: "You big git", John rolls his eyes and sets the mugs on the coffee table, before staring down at him, hands on slim hips. "Two heart attacks -back to back, mind you-, one open heart surgery, and one month in ICU with infectious fever, and you act like a grounded toddler".Sherlock shoots him a murderous glance. They are not supposed to talk about all that. That can only mean John is being serious, and the smile on his lips now is not the 'I'm happy' smile, but the 'snap out of it or I'll chin you', smile. Sherlock doesn't like the latter, so he slowly unfolds his body, sitting properly onto the chair. As properly as he can anyway. His expression must have been so miserable that John laughed. Truly laughed this time, crinkling eyes and thrown back head and all. John looks beautiful when he laughs like that. Short and sweet, vibrant pizzicato."How about a blanket fort?""A what?". Taking his eyes away from the curve of John's lips is always a struggle.





	Blanket Fort

**Author's Note:**

> prompt suggested by @angel-loving-star on tumblr: "Sherlock is sulking being snowed in without a case or experiment to work on. John tries to make him feel better. (In whatever way you see fit)

It's been a month since John told him he would stay. He has not retracted that -decision? promise?- so far. Every morning he greets Sherlock with a smile and a steaming cup of tea. Every night he tucks him in, and turns off the light -only after making sure the next-morning-pills are seated dutifully on a napkin, with a glass of cool water nearby, all arranged on the nightstand, neat, ready. During the first days after he had been released from the hospital (in truth, from the ICU, he had been stubbornly and vehemently unwilling to spend a single extra night there), John would take care of his surgery stitches too, administer the heavier painkillers, occasionally some morphine, to let Sherlock get, at least a couple hours' sleep. The pain had been horrible, then. Caused him to wake up in the middle of the night, cold sweat and fluttering heart more often than was tolerable. John had started sleeping in a chair beside his bed, until the nightmares, and the trauma, eased away.

Even though Sherlock is now allowed to walk, straining and lifting weights is strictly forbidden. And will be, for some time. In an attempt to make him forget, John does the grocery shopping, cooking, tidying, cleaning. Leaves no room for activities onto which Sherlock could pounce on, only to realise that he can't complete them as he used to. And that he won't, not for some time. He lets him do the small things. Arrange his case files, clean out his microscope and equipment. Cases are, of course, out of the question. John knows Sherlock has understood what he's doing, and Sherlock knows John knows, too. But the Doctor feigns innocence anyway, and, be it fatigue, overall weakness, or just fond amusement, Sherlock pretends to believe him, for once. As long as he is not pitied, and allowed to take care of himself in the most basic of ways as soon as possible, Sherlock is willing to put up with that amount of mollycoddling.

John has also taken charge over Sherlock's physio routine, firm hands keeping the thin torso or long arms steady, easing them into the repairing stretches and strengthening exercises. It hurts, he knows. But just a little more, Sherlock. He always says that. Just a little more. Another sip, another bite, some more sleep, or a few more steps. So Sherlock naturally assumed that it was 'just a little more' that he'd stay with him. Just until Sherlock got better, until he could achieve that little more on his own.

When John announced that it wasn't just a little more, he'd blinked and stared, and blinked some more. How could that be? Surely, John had not signed up to be his permanent nurse, and in any case, he did not need one. In one month, two, he'd be able to rely fully on his body again, and would be out and about, as he always was. In any case, John would have a family soon. A little baby, aside from the wife he already had. John's place was with his family, and that family did not include Sherlock, the detective repeated endlessly in his mind. That much was clear for a while now, done, settled. He knew his place. Sherlock knew his place. Had learned it all too well after an almost-marriage-proposal and a bloody nose.

John had stayed. In fact, had refused to elaborate on or address the matter again. Treated it as a given. Which was most perplexing to Sherlock. For once, there was the implication that something was obvious, and he didn't know what it was. John had stayed, and kept staying, his behaviour the same, day in, day out. Sherlock found such shows of dogged devotion both heartwarming and worrisome. What if John suddenly broke down? What if Sherlock would be accused of keeping him away from Mary and the baby? These thoughts easily translated into full-bellied clouds in his head. He did not want to doubt John. He ought to be grateful for what he was given, for every moment of John's friendship. Demanding more was selfish. It was not good to be selfish. But sometimes, Sherlock cannot help it.

It is snowing outside. Not too much, just stray, mischievous flakes floating lazily on the afternoon breeze. They won't solidify into snow, it is not cold enough for that, it is too rare for that to happen. It is the first days of December, and this is central London, after all. Still, Sherlock cannot but huff at how this changes nothing for him. The weather remains too cold and overall terrible, which means that, in effect, he is snowed in. John would never allow his recovery to be interrupted by the flu, or a cold, or the pain in his muscles and bones to be woken again by the teeth-clattering chill. And that may all be good, but Sherlock is bored. So unbelievably bored. He'd-crawl-onto-the-carpet-from-one-edge-of-the-living-room-to-the-other-just-to-count-its-tiny-knots-of-thread-level-of-bored.

John walks in only to find him curled -not exactly, or it could turn painful quite soon, but contorted enough- into the small space of his armchair. Doesn't seem phased by his grumpy expression, or the petulant pout, when he laughs at hearing that Sherlock is 'bored'. "Cuppa and telly?", he just asks over his shoulder, seemingly otherwise ignoring the detective, as one might ignore a five-year-old acting up. Sherlock gives a noncommittal grunt, hugging his knees as best he can. So of course John is forced to notice him again, on the way from the kitchen with two mugs in hand. 

"What are you doing there, trying to break your spine?", he huffs, but there is an undercurrent of a chuckle in his tone.

"Can't get comfortable", Sherlock retorts snappishly, and tries to shift, only to end up with a leg dangling off the constricted space. He admits defeat with a whined growl.

"You big git", John rolls his eyes and sets the mugs on the coffee table, before staring down at him, hands on slim hips. "Two heart attacks -back to back, mind you-, one open heart surgery, and one month in ICU with infectious fever, and you act like a grounded toddler".

Sherlock shoots him a murderous glance. They are not supposed to talk about all that. That can only mean John is being serious, and the smile on his lips now is not the 'I'm happy' smile, but the 'snap out of it or I'll chin you', smile. Sherlock doesn't like the latter, so he slowly unfolds his body, sitting properly onto the chair. As properly as he can anyway. His expression must have been so miserable that John laughed. Truly laughed this time, crinkling eyes and thrown back head and all. John looks beautiful when he laughs like that. Short and sweet, vibrant pizzicato.

"How about a blanket fort?"

"A what?". Taking his eyes away from the curve of John's lips is always a struggle.

"A blanket fort. You must be sick of lying in bed, and you can't get comfortable enough in the chair, or the sofa, so how about we provide an alternative for a while?"

Sherlock blinks slowly. Is John being serious?

"Oh, come on. I know you like that stuff; you had made a pillowfort once on that case in the country, because you couldn't think, remember?"

Sherlock feels about to blush or burst with indignation. "Your snoring was annoying".

"Yeah, well, do you want to build a blanket fort or not?"

"I..."

"Sherlock, I have better things to do on a Friday night than arguing with you over wanting to help you get your stubborn arse comfortable?"

"Okay", the detective exhales, putting out his hands in a gesture of appeasement. "Fine. We will make a blanket fort".

In truth, John is the one who mostly works to make the blanket fort, because Sherlock cannot carry much more than the pillows. The blankets at its base are heavy. John sets them up between their armchairs, in front of the fireplace. Sherlock mainly watches. But he has to admit he is happy to buzz around John, like a curious bee drawn to the nectar of a new type of flower. It is not that he and John did not do things together before. They would play Cluedo, and watch telly, and solve crosswords, even -that was dull-, and solved cases, of course. But a blanket fort is... different. It is cozy, and homely, and childish. It is something that makes him want to share things with John, but all are things he is not allowed to share -like he and Redbeard would play when he was little, or what his dreams used to be, or how he has always been curious if lips truly tasted like honey.

John builds the blanket fort, and finally stands up, dusting his trousers with his palms. "There you go, Princess", he teases, and Sherlock's cheekbones flare as he huddles into the monstrosity of pillows and wool and soft. "Is it okay?", John asks, and he almost sounds amused.

"Mmhhmm", Sherlock replies. And it is. He can finally stretch his legs, or curl up, in a place other than his bed -and so this place now seems more comfortable than his bed.

John keeps looking down at him and the fort, and sways on his feet a little -a small rolling motion from the heels to the balls of his feet and back. Sherlock suddenly feels exposed, even if hidden, burrowed away like a cat. And he feels alone. And giddy. "You?"

"Me?", John says, a little too quickly. Surprised.

"Um. There's... room. You could...", Sherlock's voice trails off.

"I could...". John's does, too.

Suddenly, this seems like a not-at-all-good idea. Suddenly, Sherlock's throat is tight with dread. With that gut-wrenching fear that now he messed up, and John will go away.

Nothing happens for a few moments. Sherlock's eyes are glued on John's sock-clad feet. Swaying, like reeds in soft wind. And then not swaying anymore. Rooting to the spot, and staying there.

"Yeah. I suppose it doesn't matter now", he hears John say, in that weird, low tone of his, that is a little too close to sarcastic to be truly indifferent. John's feet disappear from view as his knees, and then his face, now appear in the opening of the blanket fort. "Come on, shove it", he complains, and Sherlock scoots backwards obediently, with a good measure of disbelief about what he is witnessing.

John lies down beside him, onto his back, and the available space is small again, but Sherlock doesn't mind. It fits both of them perfectly. He keeps a safe distance, like the one they kept when they would have to share a bed in some hotel or inn. John lays a hand across his stomach, and uses the other as a pillow for his head. This close, Sherlock can smell him -the cheap white soap, the comfy scent from his otherwise hideous jumper, twinings' tea- and he has to bite the inside of his lip to resist the urge to crawl closer and curl into that space that for him so undeniably spells 'home'.

"You okay?", he asks in a small, reluctant voice, after some moments pass and John is still there.

"Yeah. Would never have believed I'd be doing this, but yeah". It sounds casual. Calm.

"Oh".

John turns to look at him, then, shifting a little to lie on his side and prop his head on his elbow. Sherlock is annoyed, but not at all surprised, to find his breath catching. It is not the first, or the last time, when John is this close.

"I meant that, you know".

Sherlock narrows his eyes in confusion. "What?"

"That I'm staying. It's too much to discuss all of it now, Sherlock, and I'm not good at doing that sort of thing, but listen to me. I am going nowhere. Never again. Not after this. Not after I thought I'd lost you a second time onto a bloody hospital bed".

Sherlock stays very very still. John shakes his head and closes his eyes, inhaling sharply through the nose, the way he does when he wants to share something. Something-very-important.

"What she did", John starts again, in a strained voice. Has to stop and clear his throat before he continues. "What she did was horrible. Inexcusable. She should have known how much your death cost me. She should have -she was supposed to know. That's why I married her".

Sherlock can feel his pulse thrumming in his throat.

"You were wrong", John says after a minute pause. He doesn't clarify about what. "And I was wrong, too. I am tired of being wrong, Sherlock. I am tired of everything being my fault".

Sherlock's mouth is dry, his tongue a helpless coil of twisted muscle. He wanted to tell John that he did not blame him. That he was -wanted to be, truly wanted to be- happy for him. About Mary. That what he had said, that dreadful, nightmarish night, was to let John have his family. To not allow him to tear it apart because of him, just because Mary had shot him. Because Sherlock knew his place. And that is what best friends do. Isn't it? Best friends, or lonely loners, aimlessly in love. Pick and choose. He truly had wanted to keep Mary safe, to absolve her from blame. Perhaps it was the easy way out. For him, and her, too. Lots of things would have been different if that bullet had been but a millimeter's fragment truer to its aim. He tried to avoid John's eyes. He was being scolded, wasn't he.

"Look at me. Sherlock". The doctor's voice was gentler than he would have ever expected. Jaw muscles working, he raises his eyes. John's are firm, but they are not angry. If anything, they hpld regret. "Look at me. I've been an idiot. But I want to fix this. Okay?"

Sherlock makes a small sound that cannot be interpreted in any reliable way. Exhales. Nods, unsure. Fix what?

"I almost bloody lost you. I am not going to lose you again". John murmurs, and cups Sherlock's cheek in a roughened, but warm, palm. The detective forgets how to breathe, and his eyes widen almost out of his skull.

"Sherlock"

"Mmm?!"

"Breathe..."

Sherlock does. Reluctantly.

"I said we don't need to discuss it all now. Or ever, if you feel there is nothing else to discuss", John soothes, brushing his hand through the short curls at the back of Sherlock's neck. Oh, how wrong he is, indeed, Sherlock thinks, and his chest expands as if he had swallowed a balloon. "I just wanted to let you know... I am going nowhere. Okay?". Sherlock slowly nods again, almost like a broken doll. His brain is a mess of fireworks, and the gallop of his heartbeat in his skull -his pulse is elevated, oh- is too loud.

Somehow, John understands. He pulls himself closer, and Sherlock belatedly registers the movement of his body, as his head becomes tucked under John's chin, an arm locks around his waist, and he can breathe in John's chest. He sighs, as every part of him melts into the contact. John's other hand brushes through his hair, sorting the unruly curls and then messing them up again. And then Sherlock's heart quietens. Because it is not just a little bit more. And if he is not dreaming, that could mean he is allowed to share all the things he has always wanted to share with John. About how he would play with Redbeard, and dream of roaming the seas as a pirate, and wonder whether lips after kisses could taste like honey. 


End file.
